


The Dragon Stood On The Shore Of The Sea

by GoddessofBirth



Series: Hotel Balconies and Little Packets of Pills [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: All Human, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Drug Use, M/M, No Werewolves, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, band!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:30:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles and Isaac are the darlings of the public, for two very different reasons.  None of that matters behind closed doors.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dragon Stood On The Shore Of The Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Because every pairing should have a band!AU. Hopefully someone who can write band!AU's better than me will come along and do this right.

They're the darlings of the band, and everyone knows it.

 

At first glance, the uninitiated might think it should be Derek Hale, the _Screaming Wolves_ front man, whose every move oozes sex and fantasy. Dark, broody and delicious, and just this side of feral. And it's true that Derek certainly has a huge following, with his leather pants and his combat boots and his wifebeaters that fit like a second skin. And it's true that his voice has been the soundtrack to many a teenager's sexual awakening, whether it be with a partner or with their own hands. 

 

Or maybe it should be Jackson, their guitarist, whose beauty and muscle and cheekbones are understandably enough to set hearts racing, even though his narcissistic personality can be grating for anyone who spends more than five minutes in his presence. And yes, he, too, has a whole section of the fanbase devoted to him, who throw their panties on stage, along with telephone numbers and sometimes room keys, despite the fact that his fiercely possessive girlfriend – and manager – Lydia Martin, always takes great delight in publicly burning it all the very next day.

 

But the real draws, the thing that has girls (and boys) creaming their undies and buying tabloids by the dozens, has them camping out for days to buy tickets - as anyone that has done the tiniest bit of investigation can tell you - are Isaac Lahey and Stiles No-I-Won't-Tell-You-My-First-Name Stilinski. And it's for two very, very different reasons.

 

It's Isaac, because he's crazy, practically dances the edge of insane. He's been known to smash his bass guitar over a paparazzi or two's head when they get too close, or get drunk and run naked through public parks. He parties too hard, wears too much eyeliner and too tight of jeans, and doesn't give a flying fuck how many aneurysms he gives the band's publicist at the outrageous things that come from his mouth. And yet he somehow manages to pull it together for every show, every performance, and the way his fingers fly over the strings could make angels weep. He once penned a song which enumerated, in loving detail, all the many ways he'd like to murder his father.  _Screaming Wolves_ performed it for the first time at a live show, and Isaac sobbed the entire way through.

 

It hit #1 on the charts for twelve weeks straight.

 

The cameras adore him, the media loves to hate him, and his fans have been known to actively stalk him.

 

And it's Stiles, because he's the boy every girl wants to take home to her parents. He's straight edge and clean cut, in a world that loves scruff and unkempt hair. He says please and thank you in interviews, apologizes profusely when he has to cut autograph sessions short, and volunteers once a week at a local homeless shelter. (If anyone got a hold of his tax records, they'd see he also donates generously to a halfway house for battered women and children, but it's done, curiously enough, in another band member's name.) He prefers hoodies and graphic tees to leather and piercings, and tends to wax poetic on the various merits of Marvel vs. DC vs. Independent publishers, all while handling a drum set in a way that caused Rolling Stones to label him as the next Keith Moon.

 

Universally adored by his band members and the media alike, he gets multiple marriage proposals every month.

 

They're yin and yang, fire and ice, and between the two of them, they rocket the  _Screaming Wolves_ to fame within a matter of months, just like Derek knew they would. Talent is great, and they all have that in spades, but it's not talent that gets you the record deals, at least not at first.

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

“We should fucking... _ah_...we should fucking sell tickets to this. We'd make a goddamn fortu -” Isaac's words are drowned out by his strangled grunt, and the headboard smacking repeatedly into the wall, and Stiles snapping his hips into Isaac over and over again. It's a vicious rhythm, and Isaac loves it, he fucking _loves_ it. Because Stiles may be a good boy – and he _is_ – but when they tumble into bed he becomes a filthy, dirty wreck, with this mouth that won't quit, and these hands that tear Isaac apart, just to put him back together, over and over again.

 

Isaac loves Stiles like he's never loved anyone else.

 

Isaac will never, ever tell him that.

 

And it's okay, because he's sure Stiles knows, has always known, even back before the band, before Derek found them, back when they were only twelve years old and running roughshod through the forests of Beacon Hills, one of them trying to escape, and one of them just wanting to feel the ground under his feet.

 

“No -” Stiles bites, sticky hot and painfully good, at Isaac's shoulder, pulls his head back by his hair until he can meet his eyes. “No, we shouldn't.” Chest against back, Stiles pins Isaac to him, holds his hips down so he can't grind back against Stiles and can only take what Stiles gives him. And that's okay, too, because Stiles never fails to give him exactly what he needs.

 

He lets his head loll back onto Stiles' shoulder, feels the burn in his thighs as Stiles' knees push them further apart, make room to nail in deeper, split Isaac open so he'll feel it all the next day, think about it when he contemplates one pill too many, or stands on the balcony of whatever swanky hotel Boyd has booked them in and imagines what all that air might feel like on the way down. And he'll remember that he can't give this up. Can't give Stiles up.

 

“What?” He taunts, even though the slur in his voice makes it less effective than he'd like. “Worried about ruining your sterling reputation? Afraid all your _cuties_ might be grossed out by seeing you actually know how to use your dick?” It's not true, of course. He knows Stiles could care less about any of that, and gossip has been buzzing about them ever since Isaac bolted off stage after their performance of _Murder By Proxy_ and Stiles chased after him; they don't return for another ten minutes, and when they do, it's far more rumpled and sweaty than when they left.

 

Hands stroke up his chest, achingly gentle in contrast to the way Stiles keeps slamming his prostate, never giving Isaac time to properly catch his breath. Stiles doesn't say anything for a long time, just works Isaac's body mercilessly, drags his mouth wetly along his neck and jaw, and lets Isaac hear exactly how much he loves being inside him, loves the way Isaac squeezes tight as a fist over him.

 

When Stiles finally touches his dick, Isaac mewls and comes almost immediately, getting cum all over himself and the $300 bedsheets. He'll probably end up stealing them.  _Mostly_ because otherwise they'll end up on eBay, and while Isaac doesn't care, he's not ready for another lecture from Peter and Chris about his responsibility to the rest of the band.

 

He's slumping, boneless, and Stiles gathers him to his body, rolls his hips and breathes Isaac's name, like it's something holy, when he comes. Instead of falling to the mattress and dragging Isaac with him, he tightens his arms around Isaac's chest and holds him upright.

 

“No,” he says again. And his voice is wrecked and gentle, but also hard, and there's steel woven through it. “They can have everything else. You can give them everything else, let them see everything else. They can watch you vomit on the street, and get pictures of you pulling your dick out in the middle of 5th Avenue, but you can't give them this. This part is mine, okay? Just mine. You don't get to share it.”

 

“Jesus, it was a joke,” Isaac mutters, tugging on Stiles' arm until he relents and they collapse in a nice spooning arrangement.

 

“It's not a joke, you fucker. _This_ isn't a joke. _You're_ not a joke.”

 

But Isaac is. He's the biggest joke in the fucking universe, and it doesn't matter how famous he gets, or how much money they make, or how many magazines tell him how talented he is, he's  _always_ going to be a joke. The best joke his father ever made. But that's okay, because at least he's a joke on his own goddamn terms now.

 

He's pretty sure he doesn't say any of that out loud, but Stiles still turns him until they're facing and runs a thumb down his cheekbone, because Stiles always knows what he's thinking. “You're not a joke. Never to me.”

 

“So you won't mind if I wear a skirt in the next show, then?”

 

Stiles smirks and sits up, grabs a box of wet wipes from the floor and throws himself back on the bed. “Nope. Not as long as you give me fifteen minutes in the green room and don't wear any underwear.”


End file.
